


Roots

by Pholo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Keith is battered and bruised, SHEITH - Freeform, also Keith is naked at one point but like...not in a sexual way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 15:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11164527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: "Keith tries to remove the suit slowly; precisely. The suction-cup nature of the suit has caused Keith’s blood to dry caked to his skin. Keith grinds his teeth as he works, determined not to cry out when he tears open his shoulder wound. It’s been five minutes, and he’s barely pulled the suit down past his biceps."Shiro comforts Keith after the Blade trials. Initially requested by makesuretheyseeme on Tumblr!





	Roots

It’s not like the paladin armor, with clunky plates and pads. The Blade suit functions a little like a battle-grade leotard, with fabric that stretches to accommodate Keith’s human proportions. The more heavily armored bits fall about Keith’s torso, wrists, and calves; he can bend his knees and flex his arms with total freedom. It’s obvious that the suit was built for speed and dexterity.

When Keith first donned the suit, it was a relief. Keith had always felt restricted by his bulky paladin armor. Fighting in the Blade’s armor was like fighting in civilian clothes. It felt light and natural.

Now, in the aftermath of the trials, Keith misses the security of the paladin uniform.

There are cuts up and down Keith’s arms, where the suit runs thin. The Blade’s swords were sharp enough to pierce Keith’s shoulder armor as well; one particularly nasty swing caught him upside the shoulder, leaving a trough through his suit and skin. More cuts zigzag down Keith’s thighs; bruises mar his back.

Keith tries to remove the suit slowly; precisely. The suction-cup nature of the suit has caused Keith’s blood to dry caked to his skin. Keith grinds his teeth as he works, determined not to cry out. It’s been five minutes, and he’s barely pulled the suit down past his biceps. Keith vows to move faster–to rip the suit off like a bandaid–but his body won’t be rushed.

Keith’s frustration builds as his vision starts to blur. His fingers slip numbly along the seams of the suit. Keith forces himself to focus. He claws at the material, then yelps as the fabric snags on his bloody arm.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

 _“…Galra blood runs through your veins_.”

Keith’s suit seems to constrict around his torso. The material feels leathery soft, like hands on his skin, and suddenly Keith has to get out out _out_. Keith snarls. In a blaze of adrenaline, he tears the suit and underamor down the length of his chest. There’s a faint rip, and Keith’s arms break free. 

Keith enjoys a moment of fevered triumph. He watches, weirdly detached, as blood catches on the crook of his elbow. Then Keith starts to wobble. He manages to push the suit down to his midsection before his legs give out. 

There’s a crack as Keith’s knees hit the floor.

“Keith?” The voice comes from the other side of the door, muffled through the metal. “Keith, what was that? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Keith hisses. He wasted his second wind, and now he can barely keep his head up. “Just give me a minute.”

To his credit, Shiro does give Keith a minute. There’s a long pause; enough time for Keith to try (and fail) to raise his arms. The blood from Keith’s cuts mingles with the sweat on his back. His skin crawls under the embrace of the suit; he feels sticky and weak, and fuzzy around the edges. Keith turns his palms upward so that his knuckles graze the floor. 

The door opens at last, and Shiro’s head pops through the doorway. Keith manages to lift his head, expression defiant.

Shiro squints against the gloom. There’s a spool of bandages under his arm; a bowl of salve in his hand. Shiro takes in Keith’s position, hunched over on the floor with his chest exposed, and his mouth opens slightly.

Keith doesn’t blink. He keeps his chin up, teeth clenched tight enough to crack, and waits for Shiro’s reaction.

There’s a clack of footsteps–a shift of knees against a metal floor–and suddenly Keith feels hands on his arms. He’s guided forward against a warm chest; Keith smells Shiro’s civilian clothes. There are fingers on the back of his neck, and a voice next to his ear:

“It’s okay…It’s okay…”

A shiver wracks Keith’s frame. It’s like he’s been untethered; he sags against Shiro’s front like a spent puppet. Shiro’s fingers comb loose circles down Keith’s spine.

Keith can’t quite stifle a sob. He doesn’t deserve to be touched with such reverence.

“Get it off me,” Keith manages. “Please just get it off me…”  

It’s not an easy process. Shiro works like a surgeon. He shuffles the fabric down past Keith’s hips; along the line of his battered thighs. Keith’s too exhausted to feel embarrassed by his nakedness. There’s only relief as Shiro nudges the last lip of material off Keith’s heels.

Shiro tosses the crumpled suit and underarmor over his shoulder. He doesn’t move to grab Keith’s clothes right away, or even reach for the salve and bandages. Rather, he resumes their hug, his touch painfully gentle where his hands meet Keith’s back.

“It wasn’t me,” Shiro says. His presence envelops Keith like a cocoon, and all at once Keith feels warm and solid and safe. “Back there, when I told you to give up the blade–that wasn’t me. It was a hologram.”

Keith rests his temple on Shiro’s collarbone, eyes falling closed. He breathes, and somehow Shiro smells like the desert. “…A hologram? How?”

“I’m not sure. They said it had something to do with your suit.” Shiro’s voice is quiet, though Keith recognizes an undercurrent of tension in his tone. “I should have come for you sooner. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Keith is about to doze off, against his better judgement. “I signed up for this, remember?”

Shiro shakes his head by a fraction. His arms wind tighter around Keith’s back; his shirt brushes Keith’s bruises, but Keith barely registers the pain.

“You have to understand,” Shiro says, deliberately. His voice catches. “I would never leave you like that. Not ever.”

Keith feels heat build up behind his eyes again. He works his lower lip between his teeth before he speaks: “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” Shiro cranes his neck around; he pulls Keith back a bit so he can meet his eyes. “I promise. No matter where you come from–no matter what happens. I’ll never walk away.”

Keith swallows. Shiro looks so sincere–so concerned. His thumb rubs a line up and down Keith's shoulder blade, and the last of Keith’s resolve crumbles. He ducks his head to hide the tears, finding the strength to sweep a hand over his face.

“Okay,” Keith manages, through a pinched throat. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Shiro repeats. He loops his free fingers through Keith’s.

“Now let’s get you fixed up.”

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: mighty-trash.tumblr.com


End file.
